The Twelve Bones of Christmas
by K. Elisabeth
Summary: A fun little series of twelve holiday shots based on the song "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Many shades of BB love, Hodgela since they're not reinstating it in the show fast enough for my liking , etc. Merry Christmas!
1. A Skull Topping Off a Tall Tree

**A/N:** It's finally here - the most wonderful time of the year. Christmas! Or, if we're being politically correct, Christmahanukkwanzikadha. :) I've been thinking about this little series of shots for a while now - I'm not going to call it a full-out fic necessarily, because there is no real storyline or purpose behind it. No case, no plot, nothing. Just a series of twelve Christmassy shots along the theme of the song "The Twelve Days of Christmas." They will be primarily shortish (shorter than my normal shots, anyway), fluffy and nice. Maybe a little dark and twisty here and there, but mostly happy/comedic. Or at least I hope they're comedic... I suppose you'll be the judges of that. Anyway, enough jabber... on with the holiday splendor!

* * *

_On the first day of Christmas, my dear squints gave to me...  
a skull topping off a tall tree._

_

* * *

_

When Booth entered the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab, his first impression was that he had entered the wrong section of the museum. Taken a wrong turn, left the elevator on the wrong floor. This was not Bones's lab. This was not her house—the House of Logic, of knowledge, of truth. Her house had been infiltrated. Somebody from the outside world had entered the House of Logic, and turned it into… what was Caroline's phrasing… a Christmas pageant.

Every supporting column, every beam, every stair railing, was wrapped in green faux pine and draped in tinsel, or strung with brightly colored lights. Shimmery fake snow collected in the far corners of the vast room, and Booth did a double take when he saw a set of large wire reindeer hung from the ceiling over the platform. No, he was definitely _not_ in the House of Logic. All logic had been evicted from the premises. This was sheer fluff—the kind of happy holiday goodness that Brennan wanted no part of. So when he saw her assisting Angela in wrapping a string of lights around a tall Douglas fir in her office, he vaguely wondered how many sleeping pills he had actually taken the night before.

"Bones… what are you doing?" Booth asked incredulously, approaching the tree with what could only be described as mild wonderment. She maneuvered around the side of the tree, adjusting the lights so that they were evenly spaced.

"I'm decorating the Christmas tree, Booth, what does it look like I'm doing?" she quipped, plugging the end of the string into the outlet on the wall. The tree came alive with colors, like bright red, green, blue, and yellow stars sprinkled among its branches. "You know, the Christmas tree tradition was originally adapted from the Pagan custom of…"

"That's nice," Booth said, cutting off her anthropological ramblings. He put his face in near the tree and inhaled—it was real. A real, live Christmas tree. In Bones's office. Who died and let the Sugarplum Fairies take over Brennan's brain?

"A real tree?" he asked, pinching a nodule at the end of one of the branches between his thumb and index finger. Strong smelling pine sap oozed onto his fingertips, and he wiped it on his jeans.

"Yes, Booth, a real tree," Brennan said, pulling one glass bauble after another out of a Martha Stewart decorations box and placing them strategically on the tree's limbs.

"Let me get this straight. You went out and bought a real, live Christmas tree, to set up in your office and decorate?" Brennan nodded, then stopped mid-nod and shook her head.

"Well, I didn't buy it—the Jeffersonian paid for it."

"How did you fandangle them into that?" Booth asked, picking up an ornament and hooking it up near the top of the tree, higher than Brennan or Angela could reach.

"How did I what?" she asked.

"Fandangle. You know, coerce. Bully. Force."

"There was no 'fandangling' involved," she began. "I simply explained to the board that it was imperative that, as an anthropologist, I be able to submerge myself fully in different cultural aspects of the holiday season. My anthropological interests are not relegated merely to the biophysical aspects of the field—I enjoy a detailed ethnography as much as anyone else."

"Anyone else, huh?" Booth said. Brennan missed the remark and continued.

"I merely stated that observation through cultural immersion was the most effective method of research available to modern cultural anthropology, and that in order to study the impact of the commercialization of a formerly religious Western holiday in a secular professional environment, I would have to be immersed in one."

"I have no idea what you just said," Booth said bluntly. Angela laughed from behind the tree.

"She basically lied her panties off about doing research to get decorations," Angela clarified. Booth raised his eyebrows.

"Bones, I'm impressed," he said.

"I'm more impressed that they fell for it," Cam said, entering the room with a newly opened box of silver tinsel. She handed it to Brennan, who began pulling the strings out piece by piece, carefully settling them on the branches. Booth scoffed.

"That's not how you do it," he said, grabbing a handful of the silver stuff and throwing it in small clumps at the tree. "_That's_ how you do it."

"What are you doing? You're going to get it all clumpy," Brennan groused, picking the clumps off of the tree and separating them evenly amongst the branches. "If you're going to help, do it right."

"I _am_ doing it right," Booth insisted. "Your way is too slow, it's tedious."

"It's not tedious," Brennan argued. Booth pelted the tree with handfuls of tinsel, shaking his head.

"Maybe not for someone who stares at hairline fractures in finger bones all day," he said.

"Phalanges," Brennan whispered under her breath.

"But for the rest of us, who live in the real world, we've got better things to do than strategically place four thousand strings of tinsel."

"Your numerical estimation is wildly inaccurate, I doubt there are even four thousand strands of tinsel in that entire box," Brennan grumbled, nevertheless handing over the box and submitting to tinsel defeat.

"So is this how you decorated your tree at the house? Strand by strand?" Booth asked, tinseling the tree while Brennan watched with crossed arms.

"I didn't buy a tree for my house," she said.

"What? Why not? You strong-armed Goodman into funding your Christmas pageant at work," Booth said.

"Exactly. Goodman funded it. I see no need to pay sixty dollars for a temporary coniferous living room fixture."

"Bones, you're loaded," Booth pointed out. "Sixty bucks to you is like, nothing."

"Just because I have a lot of money doesn't give me any reason to spend it frivolously," Brennan argued. "I can enjoy the tree here at work, I don't need one at home. I'm here more anyway."

"That's the truth," Angela piped in from Brennan's desk chair, where she had kicked her feet up on the desk and was watching the pair squabble, fingers laced over her abdomen. Brennan gave Angela a disproving look and she grinned sheepishly, setting her feet back on the floor where they belonged.

"Anyway," Brennan said. "Decorating one tree was quite enough fun for me."

"That's nothing," Booth said, waving her off with his hand. "Try decorating a Christmas tree with a five year old."

"I think I just did," Brennan said casually, exiting the room before Booth realized the implication of her words. By the time she returned, he had his witty response entirely formulated in his mind—that is, until he saw what she had in her hands.

"What in the hell is that for?" Booth asked, gawking at the human skull she was carrying.

"It's for the top," she said, as if it were an obvious statement. Angela suppressed her laughter, pressing a hand against her mouth, and Booth stared flabbergasted at Brennan as she stretched to reach the top of the tree, but came several inches short.

"Hey, can you help me here?" Brennan asked over her shoulder. Booth made a disgusted noise.

"No," he said. "I'm not touching that thing."

"Relax, it's not a real skull," Brennan said, holding it out to him. He hesitated, then grudgingly took it in hand, turning it over and finding an opening in the base of the skull. "You can slip the foramen magnum right over the tip of the tree."

"Is that this?" Booth asked, pointing to a hole in the base of the skull where the spine would normally connect to the skull. Brennan nodded, and he slipped the skull on the top of the tree, only slightly nauseated.

"This is wrong," he said, stepping back to view their macabre handiwork.

"What's so wrong about it?" Brennan asked. Booth shuddered.

"It's a Christmas tree, with a skull on the top. What's _not_ wrong about that?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong," Brennan said. "Topping a Christmas tree with a winged woman and calling it an angel. You do realized that nowhere in the Christian Bible is there any reference to an angel ever appearing as a woman?" Booth shifted uncomfortably.

"You're doing it again," he said.

"Also," she continued, oblivious to his discomfort. "The prophet Isaiah described the seraphim he saw as having six wings, not a single set. Most Biblical references to angels describe an apparition that inspired fear—chubby flying babies and beautiful winged women hardly fit the bill."

"Bones," Booth said, his tone strained. "Let's not talk about the Bible, okay? I put up your Nightmare Before Christmas decorations, it's done, let's not talk about it anymore." Brennan gave him a peculiar look, then shrugged.

"Fine," she said. "I wasn't trying to be offensive…"

"You never do," Booth said, shaking his head and smiling despite himself. "Now come on, let's go before someone comes looking for that thing," he said, looking up at the skull atop the tree. She acquiesced, and even allowed him to put his arm around her waist as they exited the building.

* * *

**A/N:** You know, I always thought it was peculiar, the way we primarily portray angels as women when in the Bible they only ever appear as men. I could launch into my theories about the homophobic nature of Western society and its implications regarding Biblical interpretation... but I will spare you. xD Reviews are loved, especially around this time of year, so let me know what you think!


	2. Two Long Lost Siblings

**A/N:** I'm glad so many of you are on board with this fic! By the way, I know I said it would be mostly light and happy... but there has to be a little doom and gloom here and there, right? I don't think this necessarily qualifies as doom and gloom, though... more like melancholy. But I think it's sufficiently feel-good at the end. :) Anyway, I won't bore you anymore up front on this... enjoy! (By the way, thanks much to Melissa for the help with the concept for this chapter. I think this worked a lot better.)

* * *

_On the second day of Christmas, my dear squints gave to me...  
Two long-lost siblings  
and a skull topping off a tall tree_

_

* * *

_

The wind picked up as she got out of the car, carrying shriveled leaves across the parched ground. Brennan looked out on the rows and rows of worn grey slabs, like nubbed teeth, and easily picked out her mother's. She looked to her right, expecting to see Russ standing outside of the car. Instead, he was still sitting in the passenger's seat, large bouquet in his lap, frowning into the petals. Brennan leaned down, poking her head into the vehicle and giving him a peculiar look.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked. He sighed.

"Give me a minute, Tempe," he asked, not looking up. She nodded, shutting the driver's side door and leaning against the outside of the car. She hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans, staring down at the gravel, then up at the bare tree branches. There had been frost on the car's windshield this morning when she left to pick up her brother, but by the time she got to his house the rising sun had turned most of it to slush. While Virginia would never qualify as the Deep South, it did stay moderate, even in the winter months. Her nieces would be lucky to have a white Christmas.

She heard the passenger's side door open and shut, Russ's shoes crunching the bits of stone beneath them. He pursed his lips together and nodded, walking in step with Brennan as they descended the hill. They passed many graves decorated for the holiday—small Christmas trees decorated with tiny plastic baubles, ribboned wreathes hung delicately over the backs of grave markers, tiny stone angels proclaiming messages of joy and good will. Other graves were bare—mold and Virginia creeper grew up the sides of the stones, grime coating the granite faces. All sending the same message: no one was home anymore. Nobody came to visit, to do house cleaning. Somebody, or everybody, had moved on.

Sometimes when Brennan came to visit her mother's grave alone—which, little to anyone's knowledge, she tried to do at least once a month—she would walk around the rest of the graveyard, reading the names and dates etched into the stoic slabs. Each of them was more than a name and a number; to her they were a face, a life, an imperfect skeleton with years of stories carved into its features. She would sometimes give each of them a story—perhaps it was the writer in her temporarily overpowering the scientist—with a family, a career, an ambition. Some of them would die heroes, of wars or smaller wars. Some of them would die alone, shriveled and small in a large white hospital room without family or friends. Some would be tiny skeletons, perhaps not even fully fused into the 206 bones of the human frame. They would wear tiny patent leather shoes and tiny suits and dresses, or worse, tiny christening gowns. A select few graves had simply one year, printed twice. They were the ones she thought most about. They were the ones she gave the best stories to.

"This is it," Russ croaked as they pinpointed the lonely grave with "BRENNAN" carved into the marker. The grass was winter dry and brown, wispy even, and crackled beneath their feet. The tombstone was clean, though—her father undoubtedly made sure of that. Her mother's name, or assumed name, told the world whose bones lay beneath this particular plot of dirt. Christine Brennan. Beloved mother and wife. Dead.

What it didn't say was that she loved dolphins. Loved them. Anywhere they went, she would look in the gift shops for anything with a dolphin on it. If she saw it, it was hers. She also had a thing for old films, _Gone With the Wind_ in particular. She could rattle off every one of Vivien Leigh's lines, especially the ones exchanged between Scarlett and Ashley. When Brennan was Temperance her mother would sometimes, on lazy Sundays with nothing else to do, pull the tape down from the topmost shelf of the video cabinet. The two of them would curl up under the large red afghan on the couch and they would watch it together, her mother shamelessly shedding a tear or two when little Bonnie fell from her pony and died. Then, in the end when Scarlett had seemingly lost it all, Temperance and her mother would both proclaim the line with her—"After all, tomorrow is another day!"

But it could never say all that, and who would read it anyway? Some stories were better left untold.

"This is it," Brennan finally answered, after a long moment engrossed in thought. Russ held the bouquet of flowers limply in his hand, holding it up and then letting it drop as if he did not know what to do with it. He finally set them hastily against the marker, stepping back and wiping his hands on his pants legs as if he were trying to rid himself of something. His eyes were very wet.

"We can go, if you want," he said, looking up at the sky. "I know you think this is stupid, so if you want…"

"I don't think it's stupid, Russ," Brennan said.

"That's what you said before," Russ pointed out. Brennan shook her head.

"I think talking to the dead is a little pointless, yes," Brennan explained. "And I think coming here like… like mom can see us here, thinking she can, is wrong. Because she can't. She's dead, she's gone. She can't see us. But I don't think being here is stupid."

"Now that we're all together again for Christmas, it doesn't feel right without her," Russ said quietly. "It feels like something's missing."

"Something's been missing for sixteen years, and you're just now feeling it?" Brennan said bitterly before she could stop herself. Russ looked up, somewhat shocked. His shock quickly faded into sadness, though, and he reached his hand out and touched his sister's arm.

"You're right," he said, letting his hand drop back down to his side. "I'm sorry. Everything that happened, everything you had to go through… it was my fault, Tempe. I shouldn't have left you… and I'm really sorry for it, still. I can't forgive myself for it." Brennan sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek momentarily before deciding on the right words. It was something Booth had tried to teach her—think before you speak.

"It wasn't all your fault," she offered. "I kind of ran you out."

"But you're my sister, I shouldn't have left you. No matter what, I shouldn't have left. I was supposed to take care of you."

"You were only nineteen, Russ. You were just a kid, we both were. We were just kids then."

"It doesn't matter," he said darkly. "I let you down. I abandoned you. You're my little sister and I should have done better for you."

"You're right," Temperance said. "But that was a long time ago. It's over now." Russ looked up and she smiled hesitantly. He ran his hand over his face, taking in a deep breath and blowing it out loudly.

"I always thought about you," he said, even his voice sounding less burdened than before. "Always. Every single day, I wondered where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. Sometimes I wanted to drive back to town, to the house, to your school. But I just… I felt like once I left, the door was shut. There wasn't any coming back."

"I thought about you too," Brennan said. "At first I was mad, but then I was scared. I wanted to know you were okay. I wanted to know you weren't dead somewhere, or…"

"Or?" he said, sensing the loaded quality of the 'or' in question.

"… or with mom and dad somewhere, without me," she finished lamely. "I know it sounds stupid but—"

"Oh my God, you didn't think we were together somewhere without you, did you?" Russ asked, his voice rising. Brennan shrugged.

"Sometimes I wondered," she said weakly. "You think about a lot of crazy things when you're…" Her sentence was cut off by the fact that Russ had closed the gap between them and pulled her into a tight hug, taking her quite by surprise. She slowly wrapped her arms around her brother's midsection, settling her face on his shoulder and closing her eyes.

"Temperance, I am so sorry," he said, his voice shaking. "I am so sorry you ever thought that for a second."

"I…" Brennan opened her mouth to speak, to say something, but her breath caught in her chest and all she could do was force it out in a shaky exhale.

"I'm so sorry," Russ repeated, holding onto his sister like she might disappear. "I'm so sorry. I never… I'm so sorry. If you can forgive me and know that, after everything I've done… I don't deserve a sister like you. Please forgive me." She wrenched his jacket between her fingers, letting the tears roll down the sides of her cheeks and soak into the canvas material. She sniffed, forcing the bulge back down her throat.

"I already did, Russ," she said. "I already did."

* * *

**A/N:** I don't think enough stuff is written about the Russ/Temperance dynamic. I mean, I know he abandoned her when she was 15 and yada yada, but they're still siblings, and they still have more history together than just about anyone else on the show. After all, you'll always have a special bond with the person you whacked upside the head with a Chatty Kathy doll. :)

Being in Brennan's position (the younger sister of an older brother) I can definitely comiserate - you have to stand up for yourself! Otherwise you'll end up like me... who, when I was seven, was somehow cajoled into sitting in a closet for _hours_. And had the mystery of Santa ruined for me when I was five. And had my Barbies taken and run over in the parking lot with his bike. And was often told while watching _America's Most Wanted_ that he was "best friends" with the fugitives on the show, and that if I didn't leave him alone he would call them to come over and get me. Really sweet kid, my brother! We're close now though, which is why I enjoy writing Russ/Brennan and I hope to explore that relationship a lot more in the future.

So, your thoughts on the second chapter? Write a review and let me know! I will be updating this a lot more frequently now that exams are (mostly) out of the way and all I have to do is work. And work. And work.


	3. Three Good Hearts

**A/N:** I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter! I really enjoyed writing the Temperance/Russ dynamic... but I like writing the Brennan/Booth dynamic even more. This one has got a lot of philosophical babble in it, which I think is always interesting between B/B because while I can always see and agree with the logic behind Brennan's arguments, I still find myself siding with Booth's emotional appeal. At any rate, hopefully you will come out of this one thinking... and maybe smiling too. :) Enjoy!

* * *

_On the third day of Christmas, my dear squints gave to me...  
Three good hearts  
Two long-lost siblings  
and a skull topping off a tall tree  


* * *

_

"Hey, watch it!" Max barked as a gaggle of children blew past him through the entrance to Toys R Us. Booth and Brennan followed behind him, brushing snowflakes off of their coats. The store was alight with little white lights, red and green streamers twisted around columns and ceiling beams, and familiar children's characters decked out in red velvet hats clustered around sale displays.

"'Tis the season," Booth said under his breath, taking in their ornate surroundings.

"Be careful!" Brennan yelled to the kids, who were all perhaps eight or nine and unfettered by adult presence. "During this busy youth-driven season, the probability of abduction is significantly higher!"

"Bones, geez," Booth said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Don't scare them."

"I'm not trying to scare them, it's the truth," she defended, shaking his hand off. "And besides, anthropologically speaking, fear is a cross-culturally popular tactic for enforcing socially appropriate behavior."

"Well, not in this one," Booth huffed, grabbing a sale flyer and peeling the pages apart. Brennan scoffed as she grabbed a shopping cart, pushing it up alongside Booth as they attempted to catch up with the kids.

"Seriously?" she said. "Fear is used to enforce virtually every social norm you adhere to."

"That's not true," Booth argued. He grabbed a Star Wars Lego set, tossing it into the cart and crossing it off of Parker's list to Santa.

"It's completely true," Brennan said, pulling a neatly folded piece of pink stationary from her coat pocket. "We follow laws because we fear legal consequences for our actions, we obey cultural mores because we fear social retribution."

"We follow laws because it's the right thing to do," Booth said stubbornly. Max smiled and shook his head, keeping his mouth shut for the time being.

"And when you define _right_, you really mean the actions that society has not classed as deviant behavior, actions that favor society as a whole," Brennan said.

"No, when I define _right_, I mean morally sound," Booth clarified, comparing the prices of two remote controlled cars.

"But why is something considered morally sound?" Brennan asked. "Because society enculturates you to believe that. Take theft for example; we have to teach children not to steal things, to respect personal property. That isn't instinctive, it's taught."

"Well, stealing is wrong," Booth said. "We teach kids to do what's right, and they don't steal because they know it's wrong, not because they're scared."

"But that's exactly why they do it, because they're afraid of retribution for their actions!" Brennan said, sounding exasperated, as if she were running in mental circles. "Has Parker ever stolen anything before?"

"Never," Booth said proudly. "Not once."

"And how did you teach him not to steal?" Brennan asked, glaring distastefully at a fluffy pink dog sitting on an eye-level rack next to her head.

"I told him it was wrong to take things that didn't belong to him," Booth explained, as if he were explaining it to a child and not a competent, doctorate-holding anthropologist. "I told him that if someone took something from him, it would make him feel sad, and if he took something that wasn't his he would be making someone else feel sad too."

"So you used emotional blackmail," Brennan said bluntly. Booth looked mildly scandalized.

"I did not blackmail my son!" he said loudly. A couple standing nearby turned and eyed the pair warily. Booth made a throaty sound and the couple wheeled their laden cart down the aisle, shooting him dark looks over their shoulders.

"You told him that theft would cause emotional pain to another member of society. Hence, emotional blackmail," Brennan said.

"Oh come on honey," Max said, finally cutting in. "Give Booth a break, he's a great dad."

"Thank you, Max," Booth said huffily.

"I never said he wasn't a good father," Brennan said. "I was merely pointing out the underlying truth—the enforcement of social norms is primarily rooted in fear. Fear of punishment or fear of hurting another person… which in reality is only feared because it is considered a socially unacceptable act."

"What is it with you?" Booth asked, throwing a Nerf gun into the cart with more force than necessary. "Why does every person's action have to be motivated by personal interest, by fear? Can't people be good just for the sake of being good?"

"No," Brennan said, as if she were answering an obvious question. "Humans are intrinsically selfish creatures, motivated by external gratification. Very little of our behavior has anything to do with moral 'goodness'." Booth groaned, stopping the cart with his hands.

"Hold on," he said, furrowing his brows as if he were trying to grasp something very complex. "You're saying that all people are basically evil, and everything we do is motivated by our own selfish wants?"

"Essentially," Brennan responded. "Even if we end up doing something good for someone other than ourselves, it is in the end motivated by our own desires. The desire to be noticed, admired, valued by others. Nobody gives of themselves without expecting some kind of laudation from society."

"Oh my God," Booth said, incredulous to what he was hearing. "Bones, how can you say that!"

"Say what, the truth?" she said, comparing a long string of numbers written on the pink paper to a Bratz doll in her hand. "I asked Amy to write down the ISBN numbers for these toys the girls want, but I can't seem to find—"

"No, don't change the subject," Booth said, grabbing the doll and setting it back on the shelf. "You really think people are that bad?"

"I find it hard to believe that you don't," she said, putting a hand on her hip.

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Well, first of all, your Christian Bible says that all humans are born with original sin, thus making them evil from birth."

"But all people are made in God's image, making us innately good," Booth countered.

"Obviously people aren't 'innately good' by Christian dogma, otherwise the fable of Adam and Eve wouldn't have been written in the first place," Brennan argued. "Genesis clearly states that Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden because they acted contrary to God's demands. They were made to be good, but chose to be evil."

"Made to be _good_," Booth pointed out. "Evil is a choice we make, but we're naturally good."

"If humans are naturally good, then why do we have to be socially trained to behave according to society's moral code?" Brennan asked. "If we come by our moral uprightness honestly, why do children have to be instructed to regard the emotions of others, to respect personal property, to obey rules?"

"You're a scrooge, you know that?" Booth said, pulling the shopping cart out of her grasp and rolling it down the aisle. "A real scrooge. Why do you have to say things like that at Christmas, of all times?"

"What's so special about Christmas?" Brennan asked, deciding the big-headed blonde doll was the correct choice and dropping it into the basket. "The holiday is grossly commercialized, it holds absolutely zero religious relevancy in the twenty-first century. People attempting to subjugate one another with overpriced, flashy gifts? I see nothing particularly moral about that."

"It's the principal of the thing, Bones," Booth said, voice strained. "Giving gifts to others, helping the less fortunate, being thankful for the people you love. Religious or not, Christmas is Christmas."

"Does Parker think that?" Brennan asked. Booth suddenly stopped pushing the cart, turning to her with a peculiar look on his face.

"Yes… why?" he asked. She looked down at the cart, shrugging.

"Well, it's just that there are a lot of presents in there," she said. "That's a lot of gifts for one little boy. Hayley and Emma both gave me huge lists, too—for them, at least, Christmas is definitely about the presents." Booth smiled, with a peculiar glimmer in his eye that suggested he knew something she did not. She cocked her head slightly.

"What?" she asked. He smiled, pulling the crumpled list from his pocket and opening it up flat.

"Read it," he said, handing it to her. She took it hesitantly and looked at the list. It was scrawled in the small boy's untidy print, though written in a way that suggested he took painstaking effort in assuring its legibility.

"Star Wars Legos," she began reading aloud. "Nerf gun. Remote controlled monster truck. What exactly is your point, Booth?"

"Keep going," he said, peering over the top of the sheet of paper and looking down near the bottom. She continued to read, finding several items with stars drawn next to them.

"Hackey sacks. Two basketballs. A baby doll. Parker wants a baby doll?"

"Look at the very bottom," Booth said. Her eyes scrolled to the bottom of the paper, where the boy had written a line separate from the list.

"Star equals… Angel Tree. What's an angel tree?" Brennan asked, not completely understanding the boy's key.

"We passed by one when we came into the store," Booth explained, grabbing Brennan by the upper arm and turning her in the direction of the store's entrance. "Max, can you watch that?"

"Sure," Max said, smiling broadly as he watched them go. He liked being able to teach his daughter something, but liked even more when Booth did.

"This," Booth said, stopping her in front of a fake tree just, covered in paper angel cutouts, "is an angel tree. The Salvation Army does them every year. Poor kids in the community get to write down what they want for Christmas on an angel. You pick one off the tree, buy the present, and the Salvation Army gives it to them. They also give them new clothes and shoes, food, stuff like that." Brennan surveyed the tree, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

"You and Parker do this every year?" she asked. Booth shook his head.

"We've never done it before. Last week we passed one in the mall and he asked me what it was. When I told him, he got really excited about it. He told me he wanted to get a gift for a poor kid for Christmas. Said he would even use his own allowance money." Brennan looked up at Booth, eyebrows raised.

"His own money?" she said. Booth nodded.

"His own money," he said.

"No prompting?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Not a word," he assured. "It was all him. Proudest moment of my life." Brennan nodded slowly, eyes flicking between Booth and the angel tree. She fingered one of the paper angels, reading the neat cursive on the front. _Girl, five, a Barbie._ She looked at the one on the limb beneath it. _Boy, seven, a bike._ Then the one next to it. _Girl, eight, a Bratz doll._ It was the same thing that was on Hayley's Christmas list.

Suddenly, Brennan began plucking the paper angels off of the tree, one by one. She walked around the sides of the tree, snatching off the angels and stacking them in her other hand.

"Bones, what are you doing?" Booth asked hesitantly.

"I'm buying Christmas gifts," she said simply, pulling the last of the angels from the tree. "Now, what exactly is a Bop It?"

Booth grinned and took half of the stack from her hand. They grabbed a second cart and sought out every angel's gift, stacking them precariously atop one another until the cart looked as if it were about to topple sideways. They met up with Max, who had nearly finished collecting the items from his granddaughters' Christmas lists, and his mouth fell slightly open at the sight of their overflowing cart.

"What's this?" he asked, surveying the damage.

"Dad, look, the Salvation Army does these paper angels for needy kids in the community, to buy them Christmas presents," Brennan explained, showing Max a handful of angels. He looked up at Booth briefly, and Booth did not miss the twinkle in the older man's eye.

"Is that so?" he said. "And that's what all those are for?"

"Yes," Brennan said.

"You know, you don't have to do all of them," Max pointed out. Brennan scowled.

"None of those children should go without on Christmas," she said adamantly. "I don't want to risk one of them not getting bought for. I know how it feels to get nothing for Christmas." She uttered the last sentence without spite, more as a statement of fact, but Booth could see the pain on Max's face nonetheless.

"That's good, honey," Max said, squeezing his daughter's shoulder and smiling at her. "That's really good. I got everything on Hayley and Emma's lists, so if you two are finished…"

"I'm ready. Booth, are you?" Brennan asked. Booth nodded and they proceeded to check out, though not without a considerable amount of interested stares. It was not unusual for parents to leave Toys R Us with laden carts, but the magnitude of Brennan's purchases left even the most indulgent parents muttering to themselves.

"You're going to spoil those kids of yours!" a well-meaning elderly man croaked in the parking lot as they struggled to load the bags into the back of Booth's SUV. Before Brennan could open her mouth to speak, Max had already leaned out the window.

"Yeah, spoil this," he growled, giving the man a one-finger salute. Booth struggled to control his laughter as Brennan gave her father an admonishing glare. He grinned and ducked his head back into the SUV, rolling up the window. They finally packed in the last of the gifts, Booth slamming the hatch shut.

"I'll take those down to the Salvation Army after I drop you and Max back at your place," Booth said. "They'll distribute them from there."

"I appreciate it," Brennan said. He smiled at her.

"Those kids are going to really appreciate it," he said. "That was a really good thing you did, Temperance. And you know what?"

"What?" she asked. He leaned in slightly, and she felt goosebumps prickle the skin on the back of her neck.

"I don't think you did that out of your own self interest, either," he said, his smile evolving into a smug grin. "In fact, I think you did it out of the _goodness_ of your heart." Brennan opened her mouth to argue, but couldn't.

"I… cannot invalidate that point," she said, somewhat confusedly.

"And _that_," Booth said, "is a Christmas miracle!"

* * *

**A/N:** I will get this done before Christmas. I will get this done before Christmas. I will get this done before Christmas. Reviews are love and make me write that much faster, so please let me know what you think! :D


	4. Four Stranded Squints

**A/N:** Glad to get a good response from you guys on the previous chapter! I wasn't sure if it came across the way I wanted it to, but judging by your reviews I think it did. This chapter has a lot less of a focus... in fact I'm not sure there is any point to this chapter whatsoever. Oops. Oh well, it amused me greatly to write, so that's good enough for me. I guess you guys will be the judges!

Oh, and by the way... WHEN did it become the 18th of December?? I'm never going to get this done in time! Luckily my last final is today after work, so from now on I will have no academic distractions to get in the way of my fanfic writing. Hahaha... you know you're obsessed when you refer to your exams as "academic distractions" from writing fanfiction. :) Enjoy!

* * *

_On the fourth day of Christmas, my dear squints gave to me...  
Four stranded squints  
Three good hearts  
Two long-lost siblings  
and a skull topping off a tall tree_

_

* * *

_

Hodgins leaned against the cold window, pressing his cheek against the icy glass and forcing himself awake. They were cruising steadily northbound on I-95, heading home from a convention in Norfolk, Virginia. The main focus of the convention had been forensics—not as good as his favorite topic, which was of course bugs and slime, but it had been interesting from a scientific standpoint. More so for him than Angela, anyway, who had spent the past two days expressing perpetual repulsion.

They had left shortly after Dr. Brennan's last lecture, stopping for dinner and finally merging onto the 64 shortly after eleven. Within half an hour Angela, Brennan, and the decidedly obnoxious Daisy Wick had all fallen asleep, leaving Hodgins to keep himself awake for the remaining three hours of their journey home. Hodgins had been mortified to discover that Daisy's mouth never rested—even in sleep she mumbled and hummed to herself.

He had thought he was going to get some road company when they stopped in Richmond for gas and coffee, but Brennan was only awake for a minute, asking for their location before settling back into her seat and nodding off again. He thought briefly about forcing her awake with conversation, but the idea of accidentally waking Daisy and having to contend with her inane babble for two and a half hours was enough to seal his lips. Instead he counted mile markers as they sailed down the interstate, listening to the road noise and occasionally drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Every once in a while he would look into the rear-view mirror and look at Angela as she slept, face smushed up against the glass, unbothered by the winter winds that chilled the car's exterior. She did not mumble or hum like Daisy did in sleep, nor was her expression plagued with the subconscious worry and intensity of Dr. Brennan's somnolent face. Rather, her expression was one of contentment, peace even, broken occasionally by a dream smile. He would smile back, unaware of his own response, and wonder where her mind had gone.

They weren't "over." They had not been together for months, but there was nothing "over" about their relationship. They had eaten Thanksgiving dinner together with her dad, and she had come over to help him decorate the mansion in Zack's painful absence. She still called him late in the night, when a fit of artistic fancy had taken hold of her mind and she could not stop painting. As if something had taken hold of her she would ramble on, about colors and images and questions no man could answer, and he would listen and smile into the receiver, feeling blessed to only hear these thoughts. They weren't together, but they weren't apart either. It was as if something was lost, and they were on hiatus until it was found again.

But what? What had they lost? What had sought flight when Grayson arrived in D.C., slithered beneath the autumn leaves that coated the earth, covered its tracks in the winter's first snow? Where had it gone, and why? Jack tormented himself with these questions on a nightly basis, alone in a house far too large for one man, that had just seemed livable with two. It was emptier now than it had been before Zack had moved in, with nobody but his echo to answer him.

Suddenly Hodgins was jerked into the present by a very loud bang. Not a bang really, but more of an explosive pop, like an experiment gone wrong. He felt the car buck and heave beneath him, turning on its own accord towards the road median. Instinctively Hodgins yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, sending the car fishtailing across multiple interstate lanes and into a soft shoulder. The wheels whined and dug into the dirt as Hodgins slammed the brakes, and the car shuddered violently as if it might turn on its side. Finally the vehicle came to a stop, engine ticking loudly in the silence that followed.

He looked down at his own white knuckles grasping the steering wheel, and let out a shaky breath. He turned to his right and saw Brennan grabbing onto the oh-shit bar for dear life, mouth open and eyes wide. Her expression was mirrored in that of Daisy and Angela both, who were now wide awake and clinging to their surroundings.

"Is everyone okay?" Hodgins asked. Brennan swallowed before nodding.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Me too," Angela said. Daisy just nodded, for once in her short life at a loss for words. Her silence was not long lived, however.

"What happened?" she asked within ten seconds. Hodgins undid his seatbelt and stepped down out of the vehicle, walking around to the passenger's side.

"Blew a tire," he said, pointing to the back right wheel. Brennan opened her door and leaned out to look—where the tire should have been, there were only strips of torn rubber. They had come to a stop on a grassy incline on the edge of the interstate road, and she had to be careful not to fall out of the car altogether.

"Do you have a spare?" Angela asked, stepping out of the car and pulling her coat close to her body. Jack nodded.

"Yeah, it's hanging on the back," he said, motioning around to the rear of the vehicle.

"Great," Brennan said. "We should be back on the road within half an hour."

"I'm assuming you know how to change a tire, then?" Hodgins asked the doctor, who scrunched her brows at him.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Don't you?"

"Uh-uh," he said.

"Jack, you own like, fifteen cars," Angela said. "How can you _not_ know how to change a tire?"

"I own them. I drive them around. I have people who do the maintenance work," Hodgins said sheepishly. "I've never had to change a tire before."

"I was in girl scouts for eleven years!" Daisy piped through the back window.

"So you know how to change a tire?" Angela asked. Daisy's face fell.

"Well, no," she said. "But I do know how to build a fire, set up a tent, filter water through a—"

"I don't see how those skills are pertinent to our current situation," Brennan said, cutting Daisy off. "There is no structural similarity between a tent and a tire."

"They both start with the letter T," Hodgins said cheekily.

"I meant physical structure, not phonetic," Brennan retorted. "Ange, do you know how to change a tire?"

"Bren, do I look like I change tires?" Angela asked. "I know how to get a guy to change a tire _for_ me. That's about as close as it gets." Hodgins shook his head and chuckled, and Angela's eyes sparkled. Brennan sighed.

"I hold a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology," she said, peeling her gloves off. "I have spent months trekking through the mountains of Tibet. I have defended myself against terrorist militiamen. I work with the FBI tracking down murderers. I can change a flat tire. Hodgins, get that spare off the back," she said, squatting carefully in her dress and inspecting the shredded Bridgestone remains on the back wheel.

"Yes ma'am," Hodgins said. He struggled with the spare before it popped off of the rack on the back of the vehicle, and Angela stood back several feet with Daisy, arms crossed, surveying the scene.

"You know, this might not have happened if you hadn't insisted on taking us in the Bronco," Angela observed. Hodgins scoffed.

"Angie, the Bronco is the best car I own," he defended, patting the car's metal exterior affectionately.

"Jack, you own two Escalades, a Hummer, a Porsche, a Miata…"

"And none of them have squat on the 1988 Ford Bronco," Hodgins said with a grin. Angela rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything more she was interrupted by Brennan growling frustratedly.

"I understand the basic mechanics of a wheel, but I do not know how to access the necessary parts in order to remove the tire," she said, thoroughly puzzled.

"Honey, I think you have to pop the rim off," Angela said. Brennan quirked a brow.

"The what?" she asked.

"You know, the rim," she repeated. "The hubcap. The shiny silver thing on the front?"

"Oh," Brennan said, nodding. "Okay. How do I do that?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Angela said, her shoulders jumping up and down. "Like I said, I don't change tires. I supervise."

"I bet you're quite the supervisor," Hodgins flirted. Angela grinned back.

"You have no idea," she purred.

"Angela, I get the notion that your supervisory talents are merely a euphemism for your sexual prowess, which isn't helping me to change this flat tire," Brennan huffed from the ground.

"Well sweetie, I don't know what to tell you," Angela said. "I don't know the first thing about changing a tire."

"I do have triple-A," Hodgins said. "We could just call and wait."

"I have a better idea," Brennan said, reaching into the vehicle for her phone and hitting the first speed dial. The phone rang several times before a groggy voice answered.

"Hullo?"

"Booth, it's me," Brennan said.

"Bones, it's two in the morning," Booth groaned. "What is it?"

"Do you know how to change a flat tire?" she asked. There was a pause on the line before he answered.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"On the side of I-95, about thirty minutes outside of D.C.," Brennan said.

"On the side… are you okay?" Booth asked, suddenly wide awake.

"I'm fine, Booth, we're all fine," Brennan said. "We blew a tire, though, and none of us know how to change it." At first he said nothing; in fact, the line was so silent that Brennan almost thought he had hung up. The silence was broken, however, when Booth began to laugh hysterically.

"It's not funny," Brennan scowled.

"Oh, but it is," Booth said, struggling to compose himself. "The Squint Squad can track down a murderer with a dead maggot, but can't change a flat tire. You people never cease to amaze me."

"Can you explain to me how to do this or not?" Brennan asked, somewhat annoyed. She heard the sound of bedsprings over the line as he sat up on his mattress.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "Because I, unlike you, have practical skills that are applicable in the real world."

"Booth," Brennan said edgily.

"Fine, fine," he said. "Sorry. I'm ready, are you?"

"Yes," she said. "What do I do first?"

"Well, do you have the jack?" he asked.

"Dr. Hodgins is standing next to me, why?" she asked. Booth snorted.

"Not Jack, a jack," he explained. "A car jack, to lift up the car while you change the tire."

"Oh," Brennan said. "Hodgins, do we have a jack?"

"Like a car jack?" he asked. Brennan nodded. He shook his head. "Nope."

"No," Brennan said into the receiver. "No jack."

"Great," Booth groaned, and Brennan heard the sound of drawers opening and closing over the line. "You can't change a flat without a jack. Give me half an hour and I'll be there."

"Booth, we can just call triple-A…"

"No, they'll take at least an hour," he said. "I'm already up, I'll be there in a little bit. You guys just sit in the car and wait. And keep the doors locked, don't open them up for any strangers."

"Booth, I'm not five," Brennan said. "I understand basic highway safety precautions."

"And yet you can't change a flat tire," he said. "I'll be there soon." He hung up, and she rolled her eyes.

"He's coming," she said to the group. They loaded into the Bronco and ran the heat while they waited, blasting the defrost in order to see the incoming and ongoing traffic pass by. Within the promised thirty minutes they saw a large black Toyota roll to a stop on the median and put its flashers on. Booth stepped out with a car jack slung over his shoulder, looking smug as he casually crossed the highway to where they were parked in the grass.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly as they stepped out of the car to greet him.

"Booth, it's still dark out," Angela said.

"And it's three AM, that makes it morning," he replied. "So, how'd you blow a tire?"

"Because it's twenty years old, like the Bronco," Angela groused.

"It is not!" Hodgins replied crossly. "I don't know, it just blew out back there," he said, pointing vaguely behind them.

"A Bronco, huh?" Booth said, looking over the car. "What year?"

"Eighty-eight," Hodgins said.

"Great model," Booth replied. Angela rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

"Boys," she said to no one in particular. Booth waved her off with a hand.

"Alright, you ladies go sit over there, me and Hodgins will get the tire changed," Booth said, but Brennan shook her head.

"No, I want you to show me how to fix it," Brennan insisted. Booth looked to Hodgins, who shrugged.

"Okay then," he said, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them into his coat pocket. "Hodgins, you wanna go get my tool box out of the back of the car?" he asked. Hodgins nodded and caught the keys Booth tossed to him, looking both ways before crossing the essentially empty highway road. Booth squatted down next to the tire, and Brennan followed suit.

"Okay Bones, first thing you gotta do when you change a tire is pop off the rim," he explained.

"This thing, the cover, right?" Brennan asked. He nodded.

"There ya go," he said, grabbing it around the edge and fussing with it until it came loose. He laid it beside them on the grass, eyeing it as it slid gracefully down the slope for about a yard.

"I lied," he said. "The first thing we need to do is put a brick or something underneath the front opposite tire so the car doesn't roll on us while we're changing out."

"Where are we going to get one of those?" Brennan asked. Booth grinned smugly.

"I keep one in my tool box," he said, as Hodgins approached them carrying the large, heavy black box and panting slightly.

"Geez, Booth, what do you keep in here?" he asked, setting the box down on the ground with a loud clang.

"Bricks, apparently," Brennan answered. Booth retrieved the brick from the bottom of the box and handed it to Hodgins.

"Behind the front left tire, please," he said. "Now we have to loosen the lug nuts. This is a lug nut wrench." He pulled out a wrench and slipped it over one of the lug nuts, before pulling out a long, hollow pipe.

"What's that for?" Brennan asked as he slipped the pipe over the end of the wrench.

"Leverage," he said. "Lug nuts are tight, they keep the tire from just rolling off when you're driving. You use the pipe to help you loosen the nuts."

"Ah," Brennan said, watching as Booth leaned his weight into the extended wrench arm, slowly loosening each lug nut fastened to the inner wheel. When he got to the last lug nut it stuck, and his face reddened as he leaned all of his weight into the wrench arm, attempting to turn it. When it wouldn't budge he leaned back, wiping his forehead.

"And when a lug nut won't come undone, you just squeeze some penetrating oil around the base and let it sit," he explained, rooting through his toolbox until he unearthed a small squirt bottle. Brennan looked over his shoulder into the large black box, which was thoroughly organized by tool type and size.

"You have a lot of tools," Brennan observed, and Booth's chest puffed.

"You can tell a lot about a man by his toolbox," Booth said proudly.

"Is that so?" Angela interjected, having wandered over to see how things were progressing. "So what does your toolbox say about you?"

"It says that I'm the Tool Man!" Booth said, hitting his chest with a fist.

"Oh-oh-oh!" Hodgins grunted. Booth mimicked the gruff sound, the two men sounding like excited junkyard dogs.

"Does everybody know what time it is?" Daisy asked excitedly.

"Tool Time!" Booth and Hodgins shouted back.

"Actually, it's twenty past three," Brennan said confusedly.

"No, Bones," Booth said patiently. "It's Tool Time. You know, Tim the Tool Man Taylor? Binford Tools? Oh-oh-oh?"

"I don't know what that means," she said flatly. Hodgins groaned. Angela shook her head.

"Don't worry, sweetie," she said, patting her friend on the shoulder. "Really… don't." Brennan shrugged.

"Don't worry, Bones," Booth said, loosening the last of the lug nuts and removing the shredded remains of the old tire. "I've got Netflix. You'll understand soon enough."

"Will that also explain why you erected a set of ten-foot wise men and a revolving glowing manger on your rooftop for Christmas?" Brennan asked. Angela snorted, and Booth grinned.

"I don't think so, Tim," Booth cracked, sending Hodgins and Daisy into peals of laughter while Angela groaned and Brennan stared blankly. "I don't think so."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, I have a confession to make. There is a show that I love even _more_ than Bones... and it is Home Improvement. :) I have no idea why I have such a peculiar obsession with this show, but I watch four episodes a night, every night, on Nick at Nite. If you've never seen it, then none of the Home Improvement jokes in this fic will make any sense to you... which is okay because that just means you're on the same page as Brennan. Oh-oh-oh!

Anyway, my love of Home Improvement aside... this chapter had absolutely no purpose. It started off as if it might have some meaning in the realm of Hodgela, but it never happened. I was having problems with this chapter from the start, so by the end even though nothing made sense I didn't even care, and still don't. The next chapter will have purpose, I promise. x)

With that said, leave a review and let me know what you think!


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